


To the Beat of the Drum

by Jechim



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Implied/Referenced Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jechim/pseuds/Jechim
Summary: The Warrior of Light fights with all their being on the Ghimlyt Dark to protect their friends, yet their efforts fall short.Spoilers for post-Stormblood.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 16





	To the Beat of the Drum

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece, written for a friend.

The sky rippled an oppressive grey above Ghimlyt as omnipresent flame fed ash unto the heavens. Men and machina alike decorated the blasted-out landscape, ruined airships protruding from the earth like mountains among the rivers of blood and ceruleum. And at the center of it all, amidst the piles of corpses both Garlean and Eorzean alike, stood the Warrior of Light-- face scraped and cut, hands bloody, and a gaping hole in their side.

  
A horrible, raucous drumbeat filled their ears, drowning out the shouts and explosions of the battlefield. The blood coating their body-- be it theirs or the enemy’s-- was so terribly hot, and made them feel as though they could burst into flames at any moment. Most dismaying, however, was the shaking of their hands; their weapons, their instruments of death, had once felt like extensions of their very being, and yet now they weighed down their arms like lead, even dangling as they were from a few fingertips.

  
But the battlefield could not wait for the Warrior’s pain to alleviate; they knew that. Even as they watched, more armored combatants emerged from the smoke; grey plate, accented only by the streak of red down their chests. Their eyes were black and reflective; uncaring of the Warrior’s suffering, wanting only to bring death unto their friends. No, the battlefield could not wait, and so the Warrior marched on, though each step made the wound in their side feel as fresh as first impact, each footfall causing their legs to shake.

  
A Garlean charged them, issuing a muffled battlecry that the Warrior could hardly hear as he raised his gunblade. The Warrior’s body felt a moment too slow as they turned to face their opponent. In those black, beady eyes, for a fraction of a second, they saw not only their battered reflection, but everything this man would take from them; their home. Their friends. If the Warrior fell here, then this man and so many others would take everything from them. Muscles burning, the Warrior cut the Garlean down without a second thought.

  
A second Garlean swung their gunblade. The Warrior saw Gridania burn just as Ghimlyt did around them. They saw Ishgard crumble to pieces into the Sea of Clouds. They saw their friends taken, captured, beaten, executed. Every home they had made in their travels, everyone they had met, put to the sword, and the only thing standing in the way of that fate was the Warrior. They reflected the Garlean’s blow and struck him down, efficient and brutal.

  
Again and again the soldiers came, and again and again the Warrior struck them down. Blood flowed from their hands, from their side, to form a lake around them, slicking the earth beneath. With every step, with every swing, new pain arced through their body, the drumbeat in their head growing louder and louder.

  
At first they didn’t notice when the gunblade’s bullet found their shoulder; their whole body was already wracked with pain, and one new source was hardly a bother. But as they swung their weapon and felled yet another Garlean, the shot dug into them, and they watched with bleary eyes as their arm seized up, the weapon falling to clatter against the bloodstained earth. And to their delirious shock, that terrible weight on their arms failed to fall with the tool.

  
The next Garlean charged, and the Warrior of Light attempted to dodge the swinging blade. But they were too slow, their body too heavy. The blade found its way into their other shoulder, digging into flesh. Somebody screamed; deafened by the drumbeat, the Warrior couldn’t tell who. Another bullet found its mark, this time in their thigh, and this one the Warrior felt immediately. Their knees wobbled and soon found dirt, their body shaking at the impact. They looked up at the Garlean with the bloody blade as he raised his weapon once more, this time clearly aiming to kill. For the briefest moment, the Warrior wondered if this is what that Garlean’s comrades had seen; a faceless, bloodstained killer, intent on destroying their kin, unflinching in their resolve.

  
A flash of blue streaked across their vision, and that awful drumbeat was, for a moment, interrupted by ringing steel. The Garlean fell, and a noble knight of Ishgard stood with his back to the Warrior, figure tall and resolute, his raven hair short and tussled, wearing armor of gold and blue and wielding a crystalline sword. To his left stood a markswoman, clad in a deep black that made her pale skin and snow-white hair seem to glow. And to the Ishgardian’s right, a samurai clad in yellow, his katana held firm in two hands, his long hair tied back in a messy tail. They stood vanguard before the Warrior, protecting them from all who may approach, mowing down Garleans with efficiency and grace. The Warrior’s allies. Their… friends.

  
“Help is coming,” Aymeric said, his voice penetrating that horrid drumbeat, his words a calming winter breeze in the heat of the battlefield, “You did well to hold them here. Please rest; we can’t afford to lose you.” He turned and flashed a thin smile to the Warrior, eyes gleaming with both worry and pride. And for the briefest moment, the pain was gone, the battlefield fading away as they stared into his caring, confident visage.

  
In that moment, the Warrior felt a profound peace, and an overwhelming desire to rest, before a horrid realization crashed down upon them. The Warrior had, ultimately, been the one to assemble these people. They had all gathered under the banner of their strength, and later of their friendship. If that strength were to falter, the Garleans would not need to travel Eorzea to take what the Warrior of Light loved so dearly. Their friends were right here, right on the battlefield that was killing their Warrior-- and would surely, surely kill them too. They were the Warrior of Light. They had been given this title by those who looked up to them, by those who saw them as a protector. Aymeric had called them such. If they could not even protect their friends, how could they have ever deserved such a misnomer?

  
The drumbeat in their head grew to a crescendo, seeming as though it might cause their skull to burst. With trembling hands that hardly felt like their own, they picked up their bloodstained weapon, and with legs that felt as though they might snap at any moment, they rose to a slumped stand. They realized, as they took their first step, that one of their legs wasn’t working right; they didn’t care. They let it scrape along the ground behind them as they shoved past Hien, eyes squarely on the enemy before them. The Doman tried to say something; they couldn’t hear it. They limped towards a Garlean, eyes seeing two of him as their body wobbled back and forth. With a shout the Garlean charged. The Warrior of Light willed their legs to move, to get out of the way; they willed their arms to swing, to defeat the enemy. But nothing happened; their legs only wobbled more, and their fingers gave a twitch and dropped their weapon. Their mind screamed to fight, to protect, but their body had finally given up.

  
The gunblade found its mark, impaling itself deep in their midriff. The Warrior felt the impact, and as they stared at the intersection of flesh and metal, they expected another surge of pain, another explosion within them of frustration, of anger, of fear. But instead, there was nothing. Nothing but the drumbeat in their ears and the dull, constant pain washing over them. As they looked back up at the Garlean, he stepped back, releasing the weapon, terror and disbelief evident even through his mask. Still keeping their eyes on him, they reached down and slowly, deliberately pulled the gunblade out of their body by the handle.

  
And then they screamed. This time they could hear it, just as they could feel their body surging forward, blood gushing forth from their innumerable wounds as they charged at the unarmed garlean, burying his former gunblade in the nape of his neck over, and over, and over again, well past the point of his death, their body moving mechanically. They couldn’t tell how long it went on; it may have only been a few seconds, but it felt like hours, each motion sending new, biting pain from their wounds all the way up their body.

  
Finally the blade slipped from their torn, bloody fingers, and they stumbled; they looked towards the remaining host of enemies, too many for their delirious mind to count, and saw them cower beneath their gaze. The Warrior took a step towards them, but this final motion was too much for their broken body to bear. They wobbled in place for a moment, eyes glazing over, before finally falling backwards, vision being ushered away from the Garleans to the black, ashen sky above.

  
But where they expected to feel cold, hard earth beneath them, they instead felt Aymeric’s firm grasp. They sluggishly glanced up to see him cradling them in one arm, sword held aloft with the other. His jaw was firm, his grip resolute as he faced down the Garlean horde.

  
“Stay with me.” His voice overwhelmed that drumbeat yet again, though this time it was tinged with sorrow and desperation. “I need you to stay with me; I can’t lose you too. Please, please, stay awake…”

  
They wanted to say something, but they didn’t know what. Perhaps to thank him, or to warn him, or tell him he needed to retreat, it’s too dangerous here. Or maybe to tell him that they couldn’t lose him either. It didn’t matter; they couldn’t find the strength to speak anyway. But the cold metal of his armor felt so pleasantly warm to them, the hard mail coating the arm that cradled them so soft and inviting. They felt… safe in his grasp, even here on the battlefield. The Warrior watched out of the corner of their eye as their friends led Alliance troops to flood the battlefield, pushing back the shouting Garleans, the drumbeat in their head growing quieter and quieter, and they knew their friends would be safe, that Aymeric would be safe, even without them on the battlefield to lead the charge.

  
The drumbeat finally slowed to a halt, and the Warrior of Light let themselves pass into a deep sleep in Aymeric’s sure grasp.


End file.
